


let me be your coffee pot

by shortitude



Series: in our bedroom after the war [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Cunnilingus, F/M, Morning Sex, a lot of cunnilingus, assholes who love too much, blowjob, canon compliance is less vague, continuation fic, it's also not about Wick, or anyone else other than the two buttheads, speculation about future, still just mostly porn with some plot, this fic is not against Wick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortitude/pseuds/shortitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war is over, Bellamy and Raven get to have a talk. No, really. This time they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me be your coffee pot

**Author's Note:**

> so...so...SO much porn. also feelings. i decided to go with happened in episode 14 and incorporate it into this series' storyline, because ultimately i believe that raven's entitled to chase her happiness or her comfort in any way she should feel to, and just because it doesn't happen to coincide with the thing most of us ship doesn't mean it didn't happen or couldn't have actually played as a stepping stone to bellamy and raven. (and here's how.)

The first night she ends up staying in bed with him instead of leaving as soon as they’re done, she chalks it up to exhaustion and the warmth of his body. Granted, they talk for a few hours – short conversations in between deep breaths and just holding each other for comfort – but it’s still a record for her as far as staying the night goes. It’s also her room he’s taken them to, so technically if anyone’s staying over it’s him, and she’s not the kind of girl who kicks people out of bed. (She’s the kind that leaves before they get up.)

It’s the second time that presents a trial, because the second (third time for them, officially, isn’t it?) night happens in his tent. 

She walks in after her shift, letting the flap fall closed and not minding particularly how it doesn’t drown the noise of the camp around them. Bellamy’s pitched his tent a few feet away from the Ark’s remains, which makes Raven think that he’s separating himself. And it’s not just a fuck-you at the Ark’s Chancellor and Kane and Jaha (Bellamy Blake would never feel entirely at ease sleeping in a camp named after Jaha, to be fair), but a way he’s got of letting the remaining forty-four know that if they need to find that leader they had before Mount Weather, he’s still there. It’s for the benefit of both sides; he probably feels more at ease not depending on the resources of the Ark, not being just the janitor or the guard anymore. He’s the protector now, the leader, the occasionally-lone-wolf. 

The reason Raven comes to him tonight has to do with multiple factors. For one, there is that conversation she had long overdue with Wick; he was smart enough to realize that he’d been a replacement the minute he picked up on her reaction to Bellamy’s return at the gate, and she’s still decent enough to offer him an apology for it. It went as expected; tense and a little sad, leaving her with a bitter taste in her mouth, but the certainty that they could still work well together. (And Wick being Wick, of course, hadn’t been able to withhold at least one “I hope meatball gives you what you’re looking for” comment that had sounded a little less snide and a little more concerned.) 

For another, it’s the fact that she doesn’t know, for certain, where she stands with Bellamy. No, that’s a lie: she knows enough. She knows she cares about him, she knows he cares about her, in the way only the two of them can understand: like how they don’t always need words to understand each other, like how she knows he’s full of it when he says he doesn’t care and then holds her through her grief, like how she knows what would break him the most and stops it from happening even if it means going against Clarke’s better judgment. She knows where they stand on the physical level, that he finds her hot and she likes every inch of his body, and they’re like napalm together. 

She might not know what being loved like she wants to be loved means anymore, and she might not know whether or not it’s safe to give herself away to someone so soon after Finn (after his death, and after his loss, and after the separation from him). But she’s strangely clear on where she stands with Bellamy. 

It doesn’t make stepping into his tent any less of a herculean effort, because she isn’t just going after what she wants here, she’s going to put it on the table and express it as clearly as she can. 

Apparently her karma is on point tonight, however, because she steps inside on time to catch him towel his face dry with a raspy looking towel. No guy she’s known ever shaved at night unless they had ulterior motive, and from the way he looks at her and that slow smile she can guess his. It makes heat flare in the pit of her stomach, which she has to ignore in order to not get distracted. But he’s also shirtless, so that’s not happening. 

“I didn’t expect you to come,” he says, snapping her out of the trance of following a drop down his chest. She looks back up in time to catch his knowing, smug smile. 

“I know you’re expecting me to make the joke again, but I’m not that easy,” she points out, easy smile at the corner of her mouth as she steps into his small tend properly and takes a seat on his low cot. (Her mattress is at least more comfortable, this is deliberate self-flagellation on Bellamy’s side.) 

“Cute.” That can mean a variety of things, from ‘bullshit’ to ‘you’re actually cute’, but she’s not chasing it. This is her not chasing it. “So what’s up?” Because if she’s here first, something is wrong; screw his intuition and perception. 

“Abby, Clarke and Lexa have finally settled a formal agreement on how they’re going to handle the Reaper-to-Grounder reconversion part of their deal.” She’s not stalling, this is something he’d want to know; look, he sets the towel down and nods at her to continue. “We’re going to use Mount Weather’s facilities. They’re easier to sterilize and guard, but since a lot of them got burned or damaged – basically, I’m going to be in charge of repairs there for a long time. We leave in the morning, actually.”

“Okay. Is this you coming over to say bye?”

“No.” She pauses. “Not really. At least I know I’m probably not going out there to die, so there’s no need for that.” She hopes. “But we do need to talk, first.” As a precaution, in case he thinks this is a booty call. (It could be, she wants him constantly; it’s a strange thing to admit.) 

Bellamy takes it as a cue to sit down, only he picks the low stool by the bed instead of crowding her on the cot, probably because he senses that it’s not the time for that yet. His stupid intuition. “That sounds ominous, Reyes.” 

It probably is. She gets where she stands with Bellamy, but she doesn’t know where he’d stand with what she’s going to say. “When you were in Mount Weather, I slept with Wick.” There’s silence. And she feels like shit, which makes her feel angry with herself because it was ultimately her right to choose, they hadn’t been exclusive; they hadn’t even been a _thing_ , and she’d just needed something. Bellamy doesn’t comment, so she carries on. “He was there, and we were going to war, and I wanted to feel – something, before I possibly died.” _And you weren’t there_ , she doesn’t say. “Afterwards, I got dressed and ready to leave—“

“I remember how that feels.”

“Shut up – and he said that I needed to figure myself out.” And mentioned how he’d be all in, which had sounded too much like commitment and relationships and for all his smarts, how the hell could he have thought that was the right thing to say to her at that exact moment? “I’m trying to do that.” 

She’s being too vague, and she sees it in his expression, in the way it shuts down and slowly starts to pull away from her. One night ago she had him whispering her name into her neck like he’d missed every inch of her for months, now he’s putting up wall. No, she’s putting up the walls first. 

“Why sleep with me again if you’re going to—“

“I’m _not_ \-- “ she interrupts him, “choosing Wick. I’m not.” That seems to have a sort of calming effect. “He’s an okay guy, but…” With one hand, she reaches out and pulls a brick out of those walls; with the other, she pulls apart the walls around herself. “He was around, and I slept with him because I needed someone to just _touch_ me, and you were in Mount Weather on your brave suicide mission, and yeah maybe I did need it to sort myself out. Whatever, the point is that if I were given the choice, I’d choose you.” It is, as far as declarations go, the worst delivered one. But shit is what it is; just another day on the ground. “I’m sorry if it comes out of the blue, or if it hurt you, but I just wanted to be honest before I had to go.” 

Silence, again. Bellamy, processing. Knowing him, she almost expects a line straight out of the ‘you mistake me for someone who cares’ book; she gets a surprise instead. “I didn’t sleep with anyone else after you,” he confesses, all walls down. 

She feels like a piece of trash for a second, lets slip a perfunctory “I’m sorry.” 

He shrugs. “Don’t be. It’s not like I told you. It’s not like you owed me that – I remember what I told you.” Sometimes, she’s floored by how much of a decent human being Bellamy actually is. Her expression softens, his expression hardens. “But I’m asking you now.” Her eyebrows raise. “Don’t sleep with anyone else.” 

Her eyebrows stay raised. “Just you?” Her heart skips another beat. 

“Just me.” 

There’s no need for silence this time, because she knows what she wants. She knows who she is, she knows where she stands. “Okay.” She’s figured herself just fine. 

 

 

 

It’s still proof that he’s full of it, that he _does_ feel something, because this time when he kisses her it’s rough enough she recognizes the territorialism in it only when his mouth deviates to her neck and sucks hard enough to leave a hickey on her. 

She squirms in his lap, where he pulled her two seconds after she said ‘okay’, the movement making for friction that has them both pausing to pant. She finds she’s moved her hand to his cheek, her thumb sweeping over his cheekbone like he’d done to her just last night. With one modification; she lets out a pleased little sound that has him pulling away from her neck to look at her inquisitively. “It’s soft,” she explains. 

“I had plans,” he offers as a confirmation to her suspicions. In reaction, she tries to roll her hips against his. He picks up on that, dropping his hands to her hips and helping her. And so it goes for a while, both of them lost in the hint of friction. She lets her forehead rest against his, their nose touching, their mouths barely reaching each other but open so at the very least their breaths kiss. She locks her gaze on his and he rolls her hips slow and hard against him, like she would if she had more control. It reminds her of how much she liked riding him, and suddenly him helping her recover a semblance of that is Important. 

So of course she doesn’t talk about it. “Wouldn’t you get burns from that?” she asks, letting her hand follow the curve and angles of his jaw. Not that she’s an expert on how shaving your face every morning goes, but it’s not like they’ve got aftershave and lotion to spare down on the ground. 

“I guess we can test that out.”

And just like that, she’s on her back on the cot, Bellamy on his knees on the floor taking off her boots. She stares at the tent’s ceiling for a moment and is very happy this is how the night’s gone. Then his hands make quick work of her jeans and she knows it’s her turn. She pushes herself up on her elbows, but that’s as far as she gets before finding his hand pressed to her stomach, above her shirt. “Show me how,” is all he says. 

So she shows him. She points out which flaps need to be opened first, which screws need to be loosened up so he can take her brace off himself. It’s more intimate than having him kiss the top of her covered mound just as he pulls off her jeans. One night ago, she took it off quickly while he undressed completely. Now, she realizes he probably would’ve done the same thing then if she’d let him. 

“Fuck,” is her only reaction, when he closes her mouth over her cunt, not even bothering to take off her underwear yet. Whatever wet spot was there before only grows bigger because of the slow strokes he gives her with his tongue, until the fabric clings to her folds, her clit. He fastens his lips above his clit and sucks, and again: “Fuck –“

She feels him smiling first, before the reply. “I think I’ll be fine with a little burn.” By the end, she feels him scrape his teeth over the outline of her pussy and almost jumps out of her skin. If he’s trying to beat a record for getting her to come within seconds, he’s embarrassingly close to managing it. 

She still pushes herself up on her elbows to watch him, because her pony tail is digging into her scalp uncomfortably and because the view is… _well_. She’s not religious by a mile but _Christ_ , he looks like sin. So pleased with himself, too, his eyes closed and eyebrows faintly furrowed in concentration, his eyelashes casting soft shadows across his cheeks. He gives her covered clit another sharp suck and she hisses out his name, burying one hand in his hair and curling the other around the scratchy blanket beneath her. 

He gets it. After a little lick to the faint outline of her sex, he peels her underwear off as well. By now she’s shaking, she’s just done for and shaking, and when he laps at her and buries a moan against her, she drops back onto the bed and groans in surrender. Her hand stays in his hair, he lets it there. She guides him for speed this time, tugs on his hair until he fastens his lips over her clit, holds him there. He licks at her, over and over, dizzying speed and no punches pulled, and she just – where was _this_ the first time they slept together, because _god_. 

She comes, sharp little tremors, the muscles of her abs clenching wildly as if they’re surprised by the intensity, and he doesn’t pull back. She tightens her fingers around his hair, but he just moves his mouth down to lick up her juices, then pushes it inside her. She comes up with a whole string of new curses, all under her breath because they’re in a tent. (They’re in a tent, lit from the inside, which means the shadows are giving the camp a show; if the camp were to watch, that is.) She doesn’t have time to think that she’s over-sensitive and can’t go again, because he pulls her legs over his shoulders and tugs her closer to the edge of the cot. Her ass up in the air, right heel digging into his back and his hand holding her left leg up, he brings his free up around her leg and presses his thumb against her clit. Fucks her like that until she’s panting faster and faster, pressing her head back against the bed and holding onto his hair with both hands. 

Second one is shorter but more intense, like someone’s pulled five strings inside her with sharp, echoing _twangs_. He sets her down on the cot gently, peppers kisses over her hipbones as he helps her bring her legs back down on the floor as well. Then he pushes himself up to kiss her, mouth closed until she licks at his lips to make him open them, both of them sighing into each other’s mouths. Into the kiss, he gets out a, “I could do that for hours,” and she believes him

She makes him lean back a little so she can lick her own lips and glances up at the light-bulb inside the tent, like an eye in the sky. Decides this is between the two of them, not anyone else. “Go turn that off and come back here.” 

Shockingly, he takes orders from her. By the time the tent is plunged into darkness, only light coming in through the fabric from camp Jaha a few feet away, she’s managed to push herself fully onto the narrow bed. She takes one look at his smug face for one moment and knows. 

She rolls her eyes. “I know you want to ask, so go on.” 

He presses one knee between her legs and peels her out of her shirt first. Then, “Was it better?” 

“You’re such a _guy_ , Bellamy.” 

When he waggles his eyebrows – actually a thing that happens – she laughs. And nods. The smile she gets is strangely worth her getting involved in an indirect dick-measuring competition. Boys. 

“Stand,” she says, pushing herself up on her elbows again. “I have plans of my own.” 

See, she knows he’s a curious person, because it works. She has his attention, and she’s beginning to wonder how many orders she could get away with giving her; science demands experimentation, and so. “Take off your pants.” He does that, too, albeit he raises an eyebrow at her as if he’s picked up on her play. “Shush, you like it,” she tells him, and he doesn’t contest it. Which means she is, as usual, correct. 

While he gets naked, she pushes herself up to sit again, and takes off her bra, the fabric of it itchy from the sheen of sweat on her back and chest. She sits down at the edge of the bed, both feet on the floor, knees spread, and points between them. “Come here.” She almost wants to tell him _good boy_ for complying so easily, but he knows what she’s planning and the look on his face is good enough already. 

One last thing: she takes the tie out of her hair. He brushes his fingers through it right away, gathering a handful of her hair in his fist, and rubbing his knuckles down her cheek. “Raven,” she hears him murmur, while she focuses on wrapping her hand around his dick and pulling him forward with her other hand. It’s reverential. Go figure why. 

“Shh,” is the last order she gives, looking up at him with a smirk, before leaning in to wrap her lips around him.

 

 

 

Turns out, she is as excellent at making him curse as he is at making her. After, he sneaks into bed behind her, drapes a cotton sheet over them and then the itchy blanket, and holds her close to his chest. He murmurs “Stay,” against her forehead, and she does. 

She wakes up in the morning, still a few hours away from the time set for the expedition back to Mount Weather, with him pressed still behind her. His arm wrapped around her waist to make sure she stays, his breath against the back of her head, into her hair, his cock hard against her ass. Her heart doesn’t feel like it’s in the middle of a storm now, when she wakes up with him. 

He must feel her waking up, because he does too. Half-sleepy, Bellamy rubs he stomach with a warm hand, and presses a kiss to her shoulder. He rocks his hips against her, testing, and when she lets out a positive little sound, he does it again. They slip into this, shockingly, as if they’ve done it before; like a well-practiced dance. His hand slips down from her stomach to between her legs just as she reaches behind them and guides his dick between her thighs. 

He rocks between them a few times, huffing against her skin when her morning slickness rubs against him. Then his hand leaves her for a moment so he can adjust the angle, and he’s pushing inside her and sighing against the nape of her neck, saying “Raven” at the same time she says “Bellamy.” 

It’s slow. It’s the slowest they’ve gone. He brings his hand back between her legs, but the circles he rubs against her clit are not meant to bring her off quick, but warm her up slowly. His other hand slides out from under the pillow, and he pushes it under her head to tip her face back so he can kiss near her ear, on her cheek. Just as he presses his hips against her and pushes as far in as he can in this angle, she opens her mouth to let out a sound against the fingertips he’s got pressed there. 

He’s so slow, it’s maddening. He can hear it in her voice, the way her moans break and sound raspy when she doesn’t get nearly enough. After what feels like hours just like this, two bodies tangled up, he murmurs “More?” against her neck. She nods, because she can’t form words right now. 

He rolls her onto her belly and sinks inside her again, the movement hard enough it makes her bite into the pillow. It’s a slippery slope from there. One hand stays between her legs, but the other finds her under the pillow, his fingers slotting over hers. Maybe at some point she says _please_ , because he goes faster, a crescendo until he’s fucking her into the mattress, the legs of the bed squeaking with every movement, and Raven muffling her cries into a pillow that had seen better days. He comes first, mouth pressed over the nape of her neck, sucking another hickey there, but his hand is relentless in getting her to follow; she does, with him still half hard inside her. 

After, she’s a useless human being for all of five minutes, panting with one side of her face still pushed against the pillow. She feels him slip out and kiss his way down her spine, then leave the bed altogether. Seconds later, he’s running his towel – now wet – between her legs, over the nape of her neck, down her back, and she hides her face into the pillow because her throat constricts and she feels like crying for reasons she can’t explain.

 

 

 

They don’t talk about how her eyes looked red rimmed when she finally looked up. He helps her dress, and fastens her brace on with an amused little “I’m good at this.” She’s going to miss him so much while she’s away at Mount Weather, she half thinks of leaving him a walkie talkie set to a frequency only they could use. 

So imagine her surprise, when two hours later, while waiting with the rest of the expedition of guards, medics, and engineers, she finds him joining them with a gun strapped to his hip. She sees Wick tensing up through the corner of her eyes, but she pays him less attention than she probably should; she’s had him tense around him, unusually quiet, all morning because that hickey Bellamy left on the nape of her neck can’t be exactly hidden. But for right now, other people’s feelings don’t matter to her as much, because –

“What are you doing here, shooter?” she asks, same smile playing at the corners of her lips again. 

“I’m your rearguard, of course.” She has every bit of a suspicion he worded that on purpose. But she’s pleased, by the idea of him joining them through the week of reparations that’s going to come; if anyone knows Mount Weather on the inside, it’s the guy who crawled through every possible hallway. 

At the front of the line, Abby gives an order for all of them to move out, and the group starts to move, following Kane and Sinclair as their lead. She’s grounded on her spot, looking up at Bellamy, both of them with those telling smirks on their faces, while a fluttering invades her belly. 

Amused, she lets out a little laugh and turns around. Throws over her shoulder at him, “Careful you don’t trip.” 

A beat, and she hears him follow. “I’ll try not to get distracted by the view.”

**Author's Note:**

> next up, maybe walkie-talkie sex while in mount weather. 8D 
> 
> I HOPE you all enjoyed this as well. (i think i'm owed someone's firstborn?) i still dedicate it to everyone who's in this fandom and has suffered in light of recent episodes for the way raven and bellamy have been treated as characters. my message to you is don't give up (on producing fic, mamma's gotta eat), there can always be hope. and if not, there's fiction to remind us of it. optimism OUT


End file.
